


Nobody

by glymr



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Blindfolds, Other, Sex with an Unknown Person, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-22
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3301655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glymr/pseuds/glymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's really better suited to these sorts of things than Bruce ever was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody

He's really better suited to these sorts of things than Bruce ever was.  
  
Dick Grayson, eligible bachelor, struts onto the stage and flashes a grin at the assembled audience.

"And what am I bid for this fine young specimen of malehood?" leers the announcer. "Remember, folks, it's all for a good cause. Take off your shirt, Grayson, the ladies want to see what they're getting!" Dick unbuttons his shirt and peels it off gracefully, twirling it like a stripper and winking at the crowd - who go wild, screaming and reaching. "Ladies, ladies and gentlemen, please! Not that I don't appreciate your enthusiasm, but you can't all bid at once!" Gradually the crowd settles, though when the announcer brings up Dick's circus background and he does a handstand and a backbend for them, they go a little nuts again.

Eventually the bidding winds down to a few very determined, very rich women of a variety of ages. Dick doesn't really care who wins him; all he's obligated to do is take her out to dinner and spend the evening with her, nothing more. And it's rather flattering that Dick ends up selling for far, far more than any of the other young studs on display, but, he reminds himself, he was born to be a performer, no matter what the venue. He knows how to put on a good show.

"So *who* won me?" he asks the organizer afterward, flipping onto his hands again.

She smiles at him and shakes her head. "Sorry, Dick. Anonymous person *really* wants to remain anonymous. She went through an intermediary and everything."

"A surprise, huh?" Dick cartwheels back onto his feet. "Okay, I can live with that."

She hesitates, then blurts, "She's offered extra if you would be willing to meet her alone, but of course I told her that was impossible-"

"How much extra?" asks Dick. She tells him, frowning. He whistles. "Okay," he says. "I'll do it. She probably just doesn't want the media hanging over her shoulder for the whole date. Can't blame her for that," he says.

"Dick, are you sure? Of course the Foundation can always use more money, but we don't know who this person is, and...we're in Gotham, after all."

Dick flashes her his best reckless grin and says, "I'll be fine. Take the extra cash and let me know where to be and when." She starts to protest again, but he cuts her off. "Hey, it's for a great cause, right? Don't worry about me," he insists, and after a few more halfhearted objections, she gives in.

"Just don't get yourself kidnapped or something equally stupid, all right? The publicity would be terrible for us," she says, handing him a plain white sealed envelope.

"You got it," he says, and kisses her on the cheek just to see her blush.

* * *

Inside the envelope is a piece of office paper with a printed note, instructing him to go to a certain address at a certain time the next day and walk in without knocking. It's tempting, *terribly* tempting, to analyze the paper and the envelope and everything else to try and figure out the identity of the mystery girl, but Dick supposes that wouldn't be playing by the rules. If this *is* a complicated setup for a kidnapping attempt, it's much better that it be Dick and not one of the other young men he shared the stage with. And if it's just someone who's shy, or ugly, or - a thought strikes him - married, then Dick will have dinner with her and be charming to her and that will be that. The Foundation gets the money, mystery girl gets her date, and everybody's happy.

"We're here, Master Dick," says Alfred.

"Thanks for the ride," says Dick cheerfully as he opens the door. "Not sure how long I'll be, so I'll call you when I'm ready to be picked up," he adds over his shoulder. Alfred nods, pulls ahead to the curb and parks. Dick grins to himself and shrugs before walking up the steps and pushing open the door.

It's a new apartment building, one of the ones built and retrofitted to the new standards by WE. There's a front lobby downstairs; airy, spacious, pleasant, and entirely empty of people. Dick frowns and looks around, his senses on high alert. It's quiet, even for a building with sound-proofing built into the walls.

There's a table with a fresh bouquet on it, and another white envelope, this one with a simple, compter-printed "Dick" on it. Bemused and wary, Dick opens it. "Third floor," is all it says.

Dick shrugs and considers taking the stairs, but decides on the elevator this time. There's only one door on the third floor. Dick turns the handle and steps inside.

It's dim in the room; he reaches for the lightswitch, but flipping it does nothing. "Hello?" he says, feigning more nervousness than he feels. "Hey, Mystery Date, you gonna come out or what?"

Only silence greets his sally, so he takes a few steps further into the room and discovers a note on the table, sitting atop a black, folded piece of cloth.

The note is simple: "Please put this over your eyes." For the first time, Dick hesitates. He gives his best airhead laugh and says brightly, "Kinky, aren't you?" Shaking out the cloth, he examines it quickly and carefully. It appears to be nothing more than a wide strip of soft, black felt. No hidden objects sewn into it, no - Dick raises it delicately to his nose - no chemicals or other treatments.

Dick turns the cloth over in his hands, considering. Putting it down on the table, he begins wandering around the apartment. The place is as bare and impersonal as a hotel room; empty fridge humming away in the kitchen, brand-new stove with the plastic still over the burners. Empty closet, a bed with a generically-patterned bedspread.

There may be cameras around, but to find them Dick would have to climb up to the ceiling and know exactly where to look, and Dick Grayson, prettyboy, isn't supposed to know things like that. So eventually he sits back down at the table, absently playing with the blindfold in his hands, and waits.

And waits.

It's not that Dick *can't* be patient when he has to. He _can_. Of course he can, he's been doing stakeouts with Batman since he was a kid.

But something about the whole setup here is damn creepy. Dick finds himself wanting to force this issue, bring things to a head, but it's increasingly clear that nothing's going to happen without his cooperation. Finally he gives in and ties the blindfold around his face, covering his eyes completely. At first he tries to cheat a little, leaving a gap he can see through at the bottom, but after fifteen more minutes of waiting, nothing happens, so he sighs, pulls off the blindfold, and re-ties it firmly, this time cutting off all possibility of sight.

It's always disconcerting, not being able to see, but Dick can handle it. He relaxes, stretching his other senses, listening to the distant, muffled sound of traffic, smelling the new-carpet and paint smells, feeling the press of the mildly uncomfortable wooden chair against his back and the soft blindfold against his skin, and tasting the air, the acrid flavor of plastic wrap over new appliances mingling with the minty gum he'd been chewing in the limo a million years ago.

There are other senses, too, and Dick lets himself feel the way his body rests on the chair, seemingly casual, but capable of moving any one of a hundred ways. If the chair tipped left, he could be out of it and on his toes, or use his weight to rock it back into place, or-

The air currents near him shift. Dick stills completely, hyper-aware of the soft scrape of a door against the plush carpet, the movement toward him faint, almost imperceptible noises. Dick holds his breath, tuning out the beat of his own heart as the person comes closer, closer.

Whoever it is stills for a long moment. Dick can sense them in front of him, a human-shaped warmth. The faintest possible brush against his cheek makes him shiver and breathe in an unfamiliar scent that - no, he does know it, it's one of the many colognes he's been taught to identify: ' _l'Inconnu_ '. His mind scrolls automatically through the people that he knows favor the scent, but none of the short list would have set up something like this.

His thoughts are disrupted as that faint, almost non-existent touch comes again, and on impulse he seizes the hand and presses it harder against his cheek. There's a quick intake of breath, but no more.

Instead of skin against his face he feels soft leather, high-quality gloves so thin that he can feel the warmth of the hands through them, though not the texture of the skin. The smell of expensive leather fills his nostrils. Dick drags the hand over his cheek and lips, kissing the finger tips, and now he can taste the leather, too.

"Who _are_ you?" he asks. The other person freezes, then gently pulls their hand away.

Whoever they are, they don't answer immediately, but lean forward until their lips are brushing Dick's neck, just over the collar of his shirt, butterfly kisses that barely touch his flesh before flitting away again, leaving only the barest trace of warmth and sweetness behind. Dick shivers again.

The lips move ticklishly up the side of his neck until they reach his ear. Then comes the whisper, so faint he feels it more than hears it: " _I'm nobody_."

It leaps unbidden to his mind, the first lines of the poem he memorized as a child, _I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too?_ He tries a laugh, but it gets caught in his throat as leather-covered fingers glide over his cheek again, down his neck and then back up, over his ear and to the line of his hair, where they linger.

It's all so _weird_ , from the mystery date to the empty apartment to the blindfold to this, these touches so light he can hardly feel them by covered hands.

Dick makes a movement to wrap his arms around the other person, pull them in, but they slip away like quicksilver. His hands scrape over a sweater, a faint impression of softness and heat that disappears as the other person twists away from him.

He leaves his hands outstretched for a moment, waiting to see if, like a startled animal, the other person will return to him. When they do not, he lowers them again. The room is quiet, but the other person is still there, unmoving, watching him. Dick waits, and soon they do approach again, feather touches on the edge of his jaw, the backs of his hands, as though the person wants more but is afraid. Dick lifts his hands and holds them out, palms up, and the person's hands tremble as they wrap around the backs of his. A sudden, ticklish warmth as lips are pressed into one palm, then the other, before withdrawing.

"Why?" says Dick, his voice startling in the thick quiet. The other person shies away a little, but quickly returns. He has no idea how long it's been, his internal clock confused by the lack of light and sound. He never had been able to perfect that inner time sense, no matter how hard Bruce had tried to drill it into him. "Why are you doing this?"

There's no answer but hands cupping his face, one on each cheek, holding him still, holding him in place as the other person closes the distance between them, bringing their lips together.

Dick desperately wants to reach out, to pull the other person in, but he's afraid they'll dart away again, or perhaps dissolve in his hands like smoke. So he lets his lips part instead, inviting, and is rewarded as a tongue traces his lower lip once, twice, before slipping into his mouth like a question and an answer all at once.

Their tongue tastes strongly of cinnamon and faintly of excellent coffee. Dick sucks on it, and there's a noise, a sharp but quiet sound of hunger and sorrow and _want_. The other person pulls back, breath suddenly audible, catching, and Dick can't help lifting his arms again, _reaching_.

"It'll be all right," he says, and a part of him is reminding him that this is crazy, this whole thing is insane, but he can't help himself. "It'll be all _right_."

His hands are caught by the other person, gloved fingers folding around his, holding him, not allowing him to touch further, but not pushing him away, either.

"Please," says Dick, not even sure what he's asking for. There's a catch of breath again, too quiet for a sob, too harsh for a laugh, and then he's being kissed once more, the mouth against his hard, desperate. He can feel his body responding to the onslaught, passion finishing what the build-up of gentle touches started, until he's hard, his slacks tenting obviously.

One hand drops from his face to cup him, squeeze him through the fabric, and he gasps into the kiss. Then the kiss breaks and both hands are busy on his button and zipper, tugging and Dick's lifting his ass without really thinking about it, hardly even considering how _dangerous_ this is, and he knows he shouldn't, he really does, but then leather wraps around his cock and *pulls* and all remaining thoughts fly out of his head entirely.

"Hell," he whispers, "Fuck, I shouldn't let you do this-" the hand tightens around him, stroking, making him cut himself off with a harsh cry. As he's breathing in again there's movement between his legs, a hot, wet mouth enveloping him and _sucking_. He desperately wants to take off the blindfold, but his partner catches his hands and holds them tightly and goes down and down, smooth tongue, *tight* throat, a low hum that sends vibrations rippling up through Dick's *spine* and makes him shudder.

"God," he whispers. "Why? Why are you- uh-" he grunts as the suction increases, the mouth working him hard and sweet. Then they're pulling back - "Don't stop," moans Dick in spite of himself - and Dick hears a harsh intake of breath and then they're diving down again, pushing down and down and down until Dick can feel the press of a nose against his pubic hair and his cock is encased in smooth, slick, heat.

He wants to bury his hands in their hair, feel the strands, silky or coarse, blonde or dark or red, sliding between his fingers. But thumbs press into his palms, where he'd been kissed minutes or decades ago, circling and stroking. He's not going to last much longer, he can feel it, his balls tightening and the heat building, building inside him, rising until it's bursting to get out. He makes a sudden movement with his hands, tries to cry a warning, but the person just forces themself down even further. It's too tight, too *much*, and Dick squeezes his eyes shut behind the fabric until he can see red and black and white starbursts firing across his vision. His body arches off the chair and his head falls back as his release seems _pulled_ out of him, a shout ripped from his throat.

There's a last, _hard_ suck, then a shift and quiet coughs, a warm weight against his leg. The person's head, as they lay against him, panting. Dick can *almost* see them, eyes closed, chest rising and falling as they breathe, cheek pressed against the dark fabric of Dick's slacks.

"Please," says Dick again. He wants to _touch_. Wants to tear off the damn gloves and feel *skin* against his own. "Let me," he says, his hands jerking in the other's grasp. The hands on his tighten again, the person slowly getting to their feet. Leaning in, their lips meeting his, and he can taste _himself_ this time, along with the cinnamon. It's not a hard kiss, it's tender and eager and yet terribly urgent. Finally they break away, kissing his cheek, his ear, and again he hears a whisper, barely audible.

"I love you, Dick."

The words stun him, freeze him in place for three precious seconds. Then he's ripping off the blindfold and leaping to his feet, but he's too late.

The room is empty.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: The poem Dick recalls is a lovely little piece by Emily Dickinson, the full text of which (all 8 lines of it) can be found [here](http://www.bartleby.com/113/1027.html).


End file.
